


got no soul to sell

by onekingdomonce



Series: Role Reversal AU [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Degrading Praise, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Nipple Play, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23383222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekingdomonce/pseuds/onekingdomonce
Summary: A favorite? Ancel didn’t know. Damianos was said to have healthy appetites and a wandering eye, not limiting himself with the lovers he took. Laurent, ever the optimist, saw this as a positive. The lack thereof wasn’t an obstacle; it was a position to be filled.Or: Laurent sends himself as a slave to Akielos.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Series: Role Reversal AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741237
Comments: 50
Kudos: 355





	got no soul to sell

**Author's Note:**

> A role reversal AU where Laurent is sent to Akielos is a trope that's always intrigued me and that i've wanted to see more of, and was encouraged by a few anons to write it myself.  
> Please mind the tags, this features Laurent in an overall unhealthy mindset making not great choices, and references throughout to his past that might be unsettling to read. Let me know what other tags should be added, I don't want to miss any.  
> Title is from Closer By Nine Inch Nails cause iM EdGy  
> Enjoy ❤️

It was time.

Laurent could scarcely believe it. That it was here, finally, at long last. 

Sensibly, he knew that it had only been a matter of months. Letters traveling through the fields of their countries, ideas unfurling like a scroll in his mind since the moment it came to him, late in the night and awakening him with purpose. This had only been in the works for a season, and yet Laurent couldn’t help but feel as if he’d been waiting for this day for years. 

_A show of comradery._ That was one of the things he’d written, sat at his desk with the hearth flickering before him. _A gift,_ he’d added, free hand pressing marks into his thigh. _For my brother of Akielos._

It was almost fun; the same way Laurent imagined peopled enjoyed diving off a cliff to their potential death with an accompanying thrill. Laurent had seen performers stand before crowds and juggle shapes of fire, men and women approaching booths where snakes were placed around their shoulders, slithering up their arms and around their neck while they laughed in a tone close to hysteria. Laurent understood the appeal, personally. He’d felt something like sweet venom creep up his throat as he wrote of unparalleled beauty and a desire to please, a personal desire to foster goodwill through this intimate exchange. 

The good thing about Ancel was that he was frank and to the point. There was no concern of him finding too much leisure in the plain southern capital to not linger, to potentially extend his vacation on the expense of the crown. He’d written back hastily with informs as they were found, and reported back the same facts with only a few additions when he was received in Laurent’s chambers upon his return to Arles, seated across from him and eager to divulge the gossip of the crown prince of Akielos. 

Slaves were nothing like Pets. From Ancel’s account, a slave acting anything like him would be removed from the household where they resided, or more likely wouldn’t have been taken in to begin with. Submission was key, traded in for perfect treatment. Laurent tested the word on his tongue - _perfect_ – and felt as if he were already getting to know the countrymen he would soon be in the presence of. If perfection was the equivalent to stripping of your will, Laurent couldn’t help but wonder what delights the opposite end of that spectrum presented. 

Laurent listened to recounts of secluded gardens, cool and fresh with bird scattered fountains and rows of boys and girls, silk clad in colors like blooming flowers. They were differentiated by pin rather sectioned off like cattle, and Laurent listened with focus to the description of one that was small and gold, curved into a lion’s head.

Laurent didn’t know how Ancel obtained his information. Who he needed to bribe, or how. For all Laurent knew, the information could have been public. He supposed that it was a good thing that he didn’t quite care.

And so he listened, and nodded, and tried not to smile. Pliant. Demure. So sweet and eager that they might flush from a still breeze alone. If obedience was the standard, then Laurent could play. 

And so he thought of games as he wrote his missives, and weighed the concept of time as he received them in return. Intrigue blended into enthusiasm, tied up nice and pretty with a bow of transparency. The Prince of Akielos was humbled by the Prince of Vere, eager to one day properly meet His Highness, but pleased to make the acquaintance of his newly contracted, specially selected Pet now. Ios would welcome him with open arms. 

_First Night_ was what Ancel had called it, recalled over the course of their conversation. It was a sacred tradition, reserved for royalty and high-ranking officials. The selected slaves were untouched, presented to the master they were trained especially for. After which to be kept in permanent security, called upon whenever they were required. 

A favorite? Ancel didn’t know. Damianos was said to have healthy appetites and a wandering eye, not limiting himself with the lovers he took. Laurent, ever the optimist, saw this as a positive. The lack thereof wasn’t an obstacle; it was a position to be filled. 

Perhaps it wasn’t the healthiest of tactics he could have chosen. Laurent considered that one evening as he crumbled his drafts between his fingers, watching them turn to embers in quick sparks of light. It was a shame there was no one there to convince him of that.

Laurent counted fifty heartbeats.

That was how long he had been there thus far, on his knees and waiting. He felt each one in his chest, pounding against his ribcage in a way that he thought it might crack it open. That would be a shame, so much time had been spent buffing it smooth and slathering it with oils that glinted like crystal.

Sixty heartbeats passed. Laurent listened to the murmured voices around him as steamed heat ran down his body, sweet smelling in the perfumed air. The occupants of the antechamber they’d filled were scant: Jord, the Veretian gift’s attendee and Laurent’s only guard who he regarded with even a little semblance of trust, and who prior to had to keep being reminded to stop saying Your Highness. 

There was Adrastus, the Keeper of the Royal slaves. His shoulders were broad and his stance was straight, it was clear from the way he held himself that he was very proud of what he did. Laurent had seen the look that had fallen across his face when he’d been brought to him. The lowering of his eyes, only to rise with an accompanying curl of his lips. He’d looked as if found Laurent himself, hand picked out of a crowd. He’d looked as if he could already see his Prince’s reaction. If the situation hadn’t been so precarious, he may have presented Laurent just like that.

But there was, of course, much to do. Laurent had been taken to the baths first, hurried quickly enough that he didn’t have the time to ogle around and register where he was. He wasn’t allowed time to think as he was stripped and bathed, something he accepted with the clinical indifference that he was long accustomed to. He was then transferred to a separate bath, one whose intendant purpose was visibly different from the standard. The water was thick and milky, it smelled of honey and made Laurent’s skin feel like cream. He’d soaked, eyes closed, and thought of the edge of a blade against his fingertips.

Adrastus had reappeared when Laurent came out, and stood with an overzealous air as he gave several attendees direction. _Not too much paint,_ he said, fingers stroking his chin. _He doesn’t need it. The Prince will like – yes, that’s good._

Laurent’s hair was brushed back and away from his face. His arms were bare, his entire upper body bare. He was dressed in a nearly translucent scrap of pale blue silk that wound around his waist and came down slightly lower on one side, just brushing the floor. His hips glinted faintly with a string of gems. 

_The Prince will never expect him,_ someone said, another man who’d entered the baths and stopped in his tracks when Laurent lowered his eyes. Laurent had kept them down, not straying from Adrastus’ brown leather boots as he tried again not to grin. No, the Prince would not.

Seventy heartbeats. It was nearly time.

A commotion was sounding outside, loud enough that it could be heard through the long gallery that needed to be crossed to reach the viewing room, but contained enough that it raised no cause for alarm. It felt like hearing from underwater. 

Eighty heartbeats. Laurent allowed himself one short, fleeting moment of discordance. He felt it in his stomach, an odd tightening like the swinging of a pendulum. He thought of fleeing. Rushing through the unfamiliar corridors and out into the open air, throwing himself onto the ship that would take him back to his home, his high towered castle that would always remain a prison until he found retribution. He inhaled.

Footsteps were approaching, more than one set. A duo of voices that were similar in tone, a rumble of a foreign accent. Laurent’s skin prickled.

Ninety heartbeats. Laurent exhaled against the cold floor where his forehead lay.

The voices lowered to a murmur, to silence. Laurent’s thumbs pressed into his wrists above his head.

Laurent’s heartbeat stilled. It was time.

More than once, Laurent had wondered how he would react the first time he faced his brother’s killer. 

A string of options had ran through his mind, varying in effectiveness as the years passed him by. He’d thought he would weep. Perhaps yell. Hopefully, attack. He’d liked that thought, had liked it increasingly the more time went on. There was evidence of it in his chambers, in his emptied library, stacks of books and research laying out the human body and its receptiveness. The parts that felt the least pain. The ones that felt the most. 

It wasn’t until just that year that he thought it would be on the ground, half naked, waiting at his feet like a whore.

Words were swarming in and out of his ears like an oncoming wave. Like pulling yourself out, gathering your bearings and gasping for air, Laurent cleared his mind and heard it. Like the break that soaked your skin and wracked in your chest, it came.

“I hear my gift has arrived.” 

It was like threatening to be pulled back under. Laurent was fighting. In his skin, with his consciousness. He pushed it all aside, breathed, listened. 

“He is exquisite.” It was Adrastus who was speaking. Proud, smug. A man who truly believed he had done his Prince well. 

“I think,” Adrastus was saying. “You will be pleased, Exalted.”

“The Prince of Vere seems to think so.” A hum accompanied the comment, a separate voice. Laurent wondered if anyone else had read his letters. “I’m almost worried to let him down.”

A laugh came from somewhere. It was short and muffled, and it burned across Laurent’s face. That was good. He let himself feel it, let his shoulders move with each breath that he took like the clenching of a fist. He shifted, just a little, and listened to the sound of gentle steps approaching him.

Not boots this time. The olive skin was sandaled in leather, strapping around the ankle and looping up toned calves. Laurent held his position as he heard, “You may look up.”

Laurent thought he could hear the water sloshing in some nearby, rose filled bath. There was silence, thick like humidity, one that Laurent didn’t disturb as someone else spoke up.

“Des he speak Akielon?”

“No,” Jord replied, who’d spent the better part of the previous month running through the Akielon language with Laurent. “A bit of Patran, though.”

“That is negligent.” That same voice, likely the man who’d come as company to the viewing. A soldier, perhaps. Or a jealous mistress. “If the Prince of Vere –“

“It’s no slight.” Jord’s words were firm, the same phrase Laurent had him repeat back to him more than once. “Any King can speak the language of his enemies.” 

“Enemies.” Slow, this time. Loud. A little bit amused. Laurent’s temperament rose. “But he’s sent me such a pretty peace offering.” 

And then, lower, in clear Veretian, “Look up, sweetheart.” 

And so Laurent looked up, finally, into the eyes of his imminence. 

This was what Laurent’s days were going to be like. This body, large and imposing, covered in muscle that was going to hold Laurent’s down and keep him still. Large hands were limp at each side; Laurent could see them holding his wrists down, pressing until his veins might pop. Brown eyes looked down on him at what would soon be a familiar pose. They would darken, at that time. Struggle to stay open.

“Well,” Damianos said. “Look at you.”

He was certainly looking. He took in every inch of Laurent, every bit of him that had been refined and prepared for him, ready for the taking like a ripened fruit. He eyed the bit of cloth that crossed over Laurent’s front, and Laurent could see that he wanted to remove it. All that would be left would be a line of sapphires adorning his waist. 

“Well,” Damianos said again. He’d inclined his fingers at his side, but took a step forward of his own before Laurent could make a move to acknowledge it. “Your Prince did not exaggerate.” 

He was standing close. It was almost too much, and it was just what Laurent needed. He lowered his painted lashes, down the length of Damianos’ legs, and cast his gaze back down to the tiled floor. 

He thought of his notes as Damianos closed their distance. He thought of plots, perfected in the dawn of twilight. Laurent’s tongue was tight between his teeth when Damianos was upon him, sharp enough to ground him, and he felt only that as he pressed his face against the warm skin of Damianos’ calf.

He heard Damianos let out a breath. It was the mindless kind, one that heated Laurent’s neck and caused his skin to crawl. He inclined his head and rubbed his cheek against Damianos’ ankle, flakes of gold dusting against him. When Damianos’ hand came to rest at the nape of Laurent’s neck, Laurent closed his eyes and shuddered.

“Good boy,” Damianos said, brushing a hand between his shoulder blades. Laurent allowed it to happen, ready for it. He was eager for it, for everything to unravel. It was the beginning of each plan that was the most exciting. That moment, before it all started, when you knew everything was going to change. “Very good.”

And then he retreated. The distance was quick and unexpected; it left Laurent cold with uncertainty and a palm to the ground. He kept himself down, kept his mind clear, and waited for the moment Damianos said, “Bring him to my chambers.”

The room is very bright.

It’s the first thing Laurent notices as he’s brought in, two men at his back that were waiting outside the baths when he was taken out. Laurent has no personal guard of his own, Jord deposited to his assigned rooms for a light lunch and rest before returning to the boat for Vere. It didn’t bother Laurent to be sent off alone. It didn’t surprise him. He had known, from here on out, that he was on his own.

Laurent doesn’t know how long he is meant to wait here, back on his knees with his palms resting on his lap. One of the guards remained outside while the other led Laurent in, gesturing vaguely to the center of the main room before taking up a post at the wall. He makes no effort to hide the way his eyes move down Laurent’s body, lingering on the gauziness of his attire. Laurent wonders, as a distraction, if every room in the palace is as boring as this one. His vantage is quite compromised, and his vision is a little bit hazy, but he still can’t help feeling as if he’s in an empty box. The slave baths offered more distraction.

When the door finally opens, it strikes a beat inside Laurent’s chest that he hopes can be heard. He is so nervous, so worried he won’t be enough for his new King. Perhaps if he shakes, Damianos will run a hand down his back again and tell him everything is all right. He wants to know what his empathy tastes like. He wants to know how long it can hold before he forgets again that Laurent is a person. 

“Leave us,” Damianos says, and Laurent is so anxious he could dig into his own flesh with his nails. He is ready. He has been ready for so much of his life; he almost wants to savor this moment. It is too soon when Damianos is standing before him, legs blocking what little view of the room Lauren had. 

The click of the door shutting sounds far away. It is soft, not unlike the voice that says, “I want to see you.” 

And so Laurent lets Damianos see him. He tilts his chin up, conscious of his breathing and the way the gauze slips against his knees. He keeps his palms flat on his thighs and lets his lips part enough that he can get air into his lungs.

Damianos is, unequivocally, more than Laurent expected. He is so much larger than anyone Laurent has known, so much more broad across his shoulders; it reinforces the conviction in Laurent’s mind that he is anything but human. He is all bronzed skin and rich colors amidst the clean backdrop around him, it is far too easy for Laurent to imagine him riding off in victory with glory on his blade. 

For a moment, Damianos doesn’t speak. He stands straight like he’s facing an altar, proud, and it is the silence between them that makes Laurent’s pulse begin to race. He wants to stay something, to spur them into action, and he knows that silence is what is required of him. And so he keeps his thoughts short, and widens his gaze in a way that breeches a little bit of their distance. 

“Adrastus was right,” Damianos says. He inclines his head. “You are exquisite.”

It is fortunate for Laurent that several emotions in the body can derive the same response. The color rises in his face and makes his cheeks pink; he knows Damianos can see it.

“Do you know that?”

Laurent says nothing. Of course he says nothing. When Damianos speaks next, it is with the same lazy appreciation as someone circling a piece of art, admiring it at their leisure. 

“Because you are,” he says, and it wraps around Laurent like a blanket, too tight. “Exquisite. You’re beautiful.”

It is now, Laurent thinks, that he should speak. He has practiced this, the different ways he can utilize his voice, the different advantage each octave brings. And so he is gentle and unsure when he says, “Thank you,” his lashes lower, more, “Exalted.” 

The response is instantaneous, and Laurent is comforted almost immediately with the knowledge that this is going to be far too easy. If the usage of Damianos’ title and a modest dip of his voice is all it takes for Laurent to receive such an air of approval, then he will have his kingdom under his boot in a fortnight. 

Damianos doesn’t bid him to rise, nor does he lower himself to his level. He places a large hand on the crown of Laurent’s head, near the back; the nature of it is saturated in ownership. He strokes his fingers through his hair and Laurent closes his eyes as he makes a sound, leaning into it. The fingers are calloused on the nape of his neck, rough like a wooden practice sword. He hears himself make another sound, and he muffles it with a press of his lips. 

Damianos’ fingers are on his jaw now, tilting his face up. He must lower himself slightly to do it, and the sudden proximity startles Laurent enough that he flinches back and away, out of Damianos’ touch.

Panic seizes in Laurent’s chest, ice cold and sudden. He didn’t – he goes to prostrate himself again, to place his forehead at his feet, and is stopped by the returning touch of Damianos’ fingers on his face.

His hold is more firm this time, holding Laurent’s chin in a way that restricts any movement on his part. He is unable to look elsewhere. Laurent’s stomach clenches again, more so when Damianos’ lips curl at the edge.

“You are very shy,” he says. His Veretian accent is better than good, nearly perfect. Consonants roll off his tongue with the mindless ease of fluency; the sound of it strikes through Laurent with dissonance. Damianos tilts his head, not releasing his grip. “Why is that?”

Laurent can’t think. He expected to be pushed down or for his mouth to be pried open. The thumb stroking his bottom lip is gentle, with no seeming direction other than to see the way it feels, and Laurent does not know how to direct this. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, defaulting to submission. It’s safest, he tells himself. He can’t do anything about the arrangement of his body, not when he’s being held up like this, but he can look like he wants to.

Damianos doesn’t release him but his hold slackens, he is supporting Laurent’s jaw on the tips of his fingers alone. Laurent thinks about taking them in his mouth, laving at them with his tongue. He would bite hard enough to break flesh.

“You weren’t trained for me,” Damianos remarks. He says is like it means something, like it is a response to Laurent’s own words. It feels like a trap, which is good. Laurent does his best work with those.

“I want to be,” Laurent says. His eyes are wide and his lips are wet and Damianos should be making this much more difficult. “I want to please you.” 

The words taste like bile on his tongue. He hardly believes he is saying them, that he can manage them without spitting them into the ground. His abhorrence at the thought is as palpable as Damianos’ approval as he releases Laurent, taking a step back.

“You will,” he says. There is a cloak hanging off his shoulders that Laurent can’t remember seeing before in the baths. It is crimson red, stark against the white at his feet. He brings a hand to the clasp.

“I can direct you,” Damianos says, an offer that is not really a question, “If you like,” and Laurent imagines his cloak running down his back and staining the marble like blood.

His eyes are molten coals, unmoving from Laurent’s throat. Laurent feels them on his body as he makes himself say, “Please.”

It should feel like a sentencing. It might, if Laurent’s fate hadn’t already been sealed when he’d watched as single combat stained a battlefield.

Damianos takes another step away, followed by a minute curl of his fingers.

“Rise,” he says, and Laurent does.

It is the first time they stand opposite each other, facing one another like men. Laurent doesn’t delude himself into thinking Damianos views him as anything of the sort, not with how he’s looking at Laurent like he’s some newly subdued animal, eager and ready to purr at his feet. His eyes don’t stop moving, it makes Laurent’s skin feel hot and tight with attention. He waits in silence and reminds himself that it is too late to step away from the precipice. 

He knows they are near the ocean; close enough to smell salt in the air. It is following the break of a wave when Damianos says, “remove your silks for me.”

 _This is your gambit,_ Laurent tells himself as the words penetrate. _All of it._ It is his mantra, the words he repeats to himself as he brings his hands to the fasten at his waist. 

The garment of silk Laurent is wearing is so finite that it might have come undone on it’s own, not needing more than a breeze through the open balcony or the light sweep of a hand. It is done up in a loose knot, Laurent gives in the slightest pull before it is falling open.

The material is soundless as it slides down Laurent’s legs, drifting to the floor. He is barefoot; the soles of his feet are as chilled as the rest of his body is now. Laurent stands, naked, each gem and cool press of metal against his skin unignorable. He feels, as if from a distance, that his fingers are shaking. 

If Laurent is an animal then Damianos is a lion. There is nothing tamed about the way he takes his fill of Laurent, no part of him he neglects as his eyes move from his face, down the stretch of his legs and back again. Laurent would be concerned that he might hear his heart beating if he thought he was actually paying attention to that.

They’re standing close together again, close enough that Laurent can feel the heat emanating off of Damianos’ body. He doesn’t think the difference in their sizes is something he will get used to, not when the width of his shoulders alone is enough to conceal all of Laurent. He tries to look down.

“Don’t,” Damianos says.

It is loud but not unkind, and Laurent loathes it. He has the commanding voice of someone born royal, a kind of voice that Laurent once knew well. It requires no physicality; an unyielding tone is all he needs to make Laurent understand that he is not being given an option.

“You will not hide from me,” Damianos says, stepping around Laurent. It gives him a second of reprieve as he casts his gaze on Laurent’s back, as heady and tangible as the sound of his voice. 

“You will not reserve any parts of yourself from me,” he says. And then he is facing Laurent, touching Laurent. He braces his hands at Laurent’s sides and moves them down, unbearably slow, curving around the slender dip of his waist and feeling the way his skin prickles in response. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Exalted,” Laurent says. His voice is a whisper that he did not intend for.

One palm moves back, smoothing against Laurent as he makes a small sound in his throat. Damianos’ mouth quirks. 

“You have very nice eyes,” he says. He toys with one of the sapphires dangling off Laurent’s hipbone, tugging lightly. It draws Laurent forward. “I want them on me.”

Laurent says nothing. What can he say? He lets Damianos get his fill of him as he makes another small circle around Laurent, more gradual than before. Laurent can’t know what he’s doing, if he’s only looking or planning to touch some more. He lets it out in this short interlude, whatever he can, and is ready when Damianos locks their eyes. “Do you understand?”

Laurent understands. He is going to have him slowly. When the moment is finally right, he will take his time as well.

“Yes,” he gazes up. “Exalted.”

“Good.” Damianos releases him with a smile. “Let’s sit.”

It’s difficult for Laurent to gauge if Damianos’ chambers are larger than his own in Arles, or if they just appear that way because of the lack of color and pattern. There are three antechambers that Laurent can see from the main room they are in, separated by an alcove that he can’t see through from his position. In Laurent’s view is a narrow table with enough chairs surrounding it to fit an entire guard. On the left of the room are reclining couches, swathed in red and simple throw pillows. On the low table, a carafe of wine.

Damianos walks to the opposite end of the room where the curtains are pulled apart, towards a desk poured in afternoon sunlight. It is covered in parchments and a stack of books; another jug filled with water that’s being used as a paperweight. He takes the seat that faces the room and leans back on an elbow, his posture mirroring all the ease of someone who’s finished their obligations of the day. There is no vacant seat around him.

Laurent stands before him, his mind reluctantly catching up. Slowly, unsure if he is right and if he can stomach it if he is, he lowers himself carefully until he is seated on Damianos’ lap.

Damianos beams at him. _Well done,_ his eyes say as he settles his arms around Laurent’s middle, adjusting him even closer. His thighs are strong and sturdy; Laurent doubts his weight is anything to him at all. He tries to think of it as a positive; something steady when inside he is trembling. 

A surge of irritation rushes through Laurent. _Get on with it,_ he wants to bite out. This would all be miles easier if Damianos would just take, if he would simply use him like he clearly intends to rather insist on stretching things out like this. His palms are gliding up the inside of Laurent’s thighs, thumbing at the soft skin there, and it’s the incessant caressing that makes it impossible for Laurent to sink into a state of blissful ignorance.

“Tell me,” Damianos says, brushing the ends of Laurent’s hair off his face. “Where in Vere are you from?”

The question stunts Laurent. He latches onto it, grateful for the distraction, eager to think of anything but the fact that he is undressed and straddling the Prince of Akielos.

“Lentos,” Laurent lies. Damianos’ hand remains at that place on his shoulder, skimming the hidden spot behind his ear. He feels a tremor go through him.

Damianos grazes a knuckle down the center of Laurent’s chest, passing the flecks of paint that had been seamlessly blended so he would gleam like porcelain. He touches him like he is afraid to press too hard, worried that Laurent will disappear from his hold, and it is the same kind of gentleness when he follows the path with his lips.

It is so unexpected that Laurent jolts, unintentionally pressing himself against Damianos’ mouth. 

Laurent holds himself very still as the blood rushes to his head, unsure if he is going to be scolded for it. A part of him hopes he will be. He needs that, he thinks. Something familiar that he can accept with indifference. Not this smile against his arm, unhurried and amused. 

“Lentos,” Damianos repeats, kissing the word into his pectoral muscle. Laurent’s toes curl as he clenches his teeth together. “Tell me about it.”

And so he does. Laurent recites things that he has read and things that he makes up, knowing none of it matters. Damianos knows nothing about the province, nor does he actually care. Laurent is fairly certain he’s not even listening to him speak, too busy with the rise of his palm up Laurent’s back, the different parts of his front that he can nuzzle his face against and breathe into.

The warmth of Damianos’ hand moves tantalizingly close to the small of his back as he hums his half attention to Laurent’s words. Laurent considers what he might say that would move things along, taking them to the bedchambers where Damianos can have him already, face down in the mattress and detached. He craves it, the impersonal nature of fucking. He knows, somehow, that it would be easier to brace than this.

Daringly, Laurent places his hand on the swell of Damianos’ bicep. It is obscene that his fingers won’t even wrap halfway around, as solid under his touch as stone. It receives him no reaction, no acknowledgment as Damianos maps the notches of his spine with his hands. A bead of sweat runs down Laurent’s temple.

It makes sense, Laurent thinks. He had known that he had reduced himself to the equivalency of a faceless possession. It should be fitting that he reacts as such, a small silver lining that his lack of reactions go unnoticed by Damianos’ distracted state, until Damianos lifts his face from Laurent’s chest with a short breath of air that makes Laurent gasp. 

Alarm seizes him. Damianos notices, it is clear in the way his lips edge into a grin that is as knowing as the look in his eyes. It feels as if time stops in that moment, stilling to a pause before reversing so that it might reply again in his ears. Laurent closes his eyes, wanting to hide from it.

“Responsive,” Damianos muses in a low voice as he places his hands back on Laurent.

His touch is firm; his fingers make small circles around Laurent’s nipples, teasing the edge of the puckered skin with his nail. He rubs the flat of his thumb against one, slowly. To Laurent’s horror, he feels his cock twitch.

 _Stop_ , he wants to say, and can’t.

He knows, without looking, that Damianos is still grinning. He can hear it in his voice. 

“You would look lovely pierced,” he says, and Laurent keeps his eyes closed like it will block his own response. Damianos’ voice is rich; Laurent can feel it in his stomach as his breaths grow heavy in his throat. “Golden rings to match your collar. What do you think?”

He pinches his left nipple between thumb and forefinger and Laurent moans. He has never heard himself like this before, it sounds nothing like him. He needs to grab onto something but he can’t, he is powerless to ground himself. His hands remain at his sides, useless, shaking. His face burns. 

“We’ll have it done,” Damianos says. It’s spoken like a promise, and then he releases Laurent.

It’s so sudden that it leaves Laurent reeling. He feels like he needs to catch his breath, but that’s not – he opens his eyes, weakly, and tells himself that anything that might be showing on his face is good. It is – he had played the part. He is doing well. 

There is a proud look on Damianos’ face that Laurent cannot mistake for anything else. He touches his finger to the center of Laurent’s lips, to the skin below. He speaks beneath heavy lids as he says, “I am going to enjoy you.”

There are words on the edge of Laurent’s tongue. He’s not certain what they are or how to make them work, too preoccupied with diminishing the odd clenching he feels in his belly. He licks at his lips and takes in a breath, just as Damianos kisses him on the mouth.

In that moment, everything slams to a halt. It’s not out of the ordinary for Laurent to feel as if he’s been thrown into the deep end without warning, especially not now, but this is different. It is more, too much, and Laurent struggles to breathe.

Damianos kisses Laurent like it is something familiar between them, like it’s not the first time he cups the back of his neck in his hand and slides their lips together. It is slow and exploratory, the only thing Laurent can hear in the stillness of the room, and the sensuality of it makes him want to bolt. If Damianos wasn’t holding his head in place, he thinks that he might have.

He sucks at Laurent’s lip as he pulls away, shameless with it. Laurent’s eyes remained open for the entirety of the exchange, unwilling to trick himself into forgetting who this is, touching him like a lover. Damianos gives his nape a squeeze when their eyes meet, and it is impossible to not feel the implication of praise behind it.

“Very good,” Damianos says, and then he is kissing Laurent again.

Laurent has the brief, panicked thought that this is not what he had committed himself to. He thinks that it is his singular stroke of luck that he is meant to be pliable and meek, obedient in how he holds himself and reacts. His lips are slack from his shock that he can’t seem to curtail, it makes it all that much easier for Damianos to lick his way into Laurent’s open, waiting mouth.

It’s difficult to prepare yourself for something you’ve never experienced before. For all that Laurent has seen in his court it is not an intimacy he has ever been personally familiarized with and it is his instinct alone that has him mirroring what is being done, following the lead. He loathes every second of it; the hand pressing against the small of his back and keeping them close, the unexpected nip of teeth against his lip, the way his stomach turns and flutters like a wasp, tightening when everything turns slow.

Laurent’s lips feel swollen and puffy when they pull apart, he wants to cover them with the tips of his fingers and tear them away. His heart will not stop racing, it’s like he’s been chased up a flight of stairs and he is now standing behind a closed door, hiding. His body is roused and it sickens him with shame. 

Damianos brings a hand to Laurent’s side and it seems impossible to focus on anything else. He braces himself, his bones locking up the instant their skin makes contact, and it brings another lazy tilt to Damianos’ lips.

“You’re still so nervous,” he says, and Laurent wouldn’t bother to correct him if he could. He turns the hand over, running the backs of his nails up Laurent’s stomach. “Don’t be. You’re doing very well.” 

It’s condescending, the way he says it. The tone is honeyed and deep, a supremacy behind it that Laurent wants to fight against. He wishes he wasn’t so aware of it, that he could turn his face from how aware of it he is. But he just links his fingers together, pulling at one, and hopes the show of pliancy will also serve to distract himself from how close to it his body is fooled into feeling. 

“I want to do better,” Laurent says, and he means it. He wants Damianos to forget anyone who isn’t Laurent, any taste that is not his own. He wants already to be the only thing he sees, the last thing. 

Dark eyebrows raise a fraction. There is a large curl that falls down his forehead and conceals one brow, and for a moment Laurent can’t look away. It was once caked with blood and sweat but it’s clean now, brushing away with ease from the comb of his fingers.

Laurent expects Damianos to wrap the hand back around him, but instead he taps it against the side of Laurent’s thigh in a signal. It is gentle but quick, angled in a way that it rings out in sound despite the lack of force behind it. It stings Laurent’s cheeks with heat.

“Come,” he says, before urging Laurent up. 

Laurent tries to take in what he can of the room as he walks, searching for mundane things that will serve as a distraction. He resents again how dull the surroundings are, the bland interior of the bedchambers and lack of ornamentation offer Laurent nothing to grip onto. All there is are unruffled white sheets, an open view that is nothing like what Laurent is used to, and a wide empty room that he knows no one else will enter.

“Relax,” Damianos says against his ear, before he settles his hands against Laurent’s hips and turns him around. It is clear what he wants, fingers moving to Laurent’s wrists, and Laurent is grateful for the ability to shift is concentration onto something else.

The pins are much less simple to maneuver than they look, and Laurent feels a kick of irritation as his fingers fumble, already unsteady. It takes him longer than he would have liked but he manages without assistance, and his heart in in his throat by the time the final pin is out of place and the last scrap of fabric winds away.

Damianos’ hands are back on Laurent before he can think, stepping forward and crowding him against the bed, and Laurent hardly manages to take in air before he is being pressed down against the mattress with his legs nudged apart. 

Everything is concealed from Laurent’s view so that all he knows is one body. It centers his awareness in a way that strips him of all his senses and muddles them into one, drifting back to him like an old forgotten nightmare. Damianos is hard; Laurent can feel it as he ruts against him, slotting their thighs together. His face is half turned into Laurent’s neck, hot breathes of air that he can feel between the wet press of his lips, and it has Laurent tilt his neck in a way that makes him quail at how brazen he’s acting. 

Damianos thrusts against Laurent like it’s all he plans to do, rubbing his cock against his stomach in slow, wet streaks as a shudder runs through his spine. He presses Laurent against the mattress with his hips, groaning into his throat, and it brings them together in a way that makes Laurent whimper between his lips.

Laurent tries to stop. He _tries_ , but it shouldn’t - it shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t be on his back with his shoulders pressed into the bedding, everything in his watery gaze. He should be pushed onto his stomach with his face buried into a pillow, a fist in his hair with his mind blissfully numb. He should be able to block out the grunts, the open slide of soft lips that make him shake and burn in his own skin. 

It is a reprieve when Damianos finally pulls away, one that leaves Laurent so dazed and heavy lidded that he can hardly appreciate it. He runs both hands through his hair and it makes his arms flex, and Laurent is allowed to do nothing but breathe and watch and wish he could disappear into nothing.

When Damianos leans back into Laurent’s view with what he knows intimately well as oil, an alarm goes off in his head that’s not unlike a faint buzzing. He feels feverish. It’s a different color than he’s used to, the phial much more slim and nondescript. He wonders how different it will taste.

When Damianos sets it into Laurent’s hand, he can do nothing but stare.

Something about it makes Damianos laugh, though Laurent cannot begin to guess what. He looms above Laurent, settling in with a hand on his knee. 

“Prepare yourself,” he says, and Laurent wants to shout until he is blue in the face and this is all over. He leans closer, spreading Laurent’s legs a little more apart. 

“Open yourself for me,” he says like it requires clarification. He rubs the inside of Laurent’s calf, grinning when he flinches. “Go on. I want to watch.” 

There is nothing else for Laurent to do. He chose this; it’s what he thinks about as he pulls the stopper off, letting it roll away. There is no fragrance, no color to it, but it’s as slick as Laurent remembers as he coats his fingers to the knuckles. His heart hammers against his ribcage as he reaches between his legs.

Somewhere, there is some faint part of Laurent that recalls that he is meant to look eager for this. This is meant to be a role for him to play, to wash over him in oblivion, and he clings to that as he begins.

Damianos looks at nowhere else. Laurent feels on display and far too conscious of himself. He knows what he looks like, legs spread as he works himself open. He can _hear it_ , the shifting mattress and the sounds his own touch makes. Damianos’ eyes remain, transfixed, watching Laurent’s hand moves as he thumbs at the thin skin of his hipbone. 

“Good,” he says, and then without looking up, “Another.”

Laurent complies. His chest is moving with every passing second, he feels profoundly grateful that the angle is wrong and he can’t reach properly. It is clinical, like this. He could ignore what he’s doing and focus only on obeying, but Damianos won’t stop _talking._

“That’s so good,” he says, smoothing a palm down the curve of his waist. “Like that, that’s it.” 

Laurent’s cheeks burn with mortification. The bed creaks as Damianos leans inwards, it makes Laurent think of fucking and sends another wave of panic through him. He fills his lungs with air and lets himself feel it.

The phial is back in Damianos’ hand, his eyes rising to Laurent’s face. He likes whatever he finds there, Laurent can tell, and he waits for his hand to be slickened with more oil.

Damianos dips forward, touching the crease of his thigh, before sliding his own finger inside.

Everything slams to a halt. It shocks Laurent so much that he lets out a sound, a groan that is half caught in his throat as he tries to get his mind back out of a haze. It is – Damianos’ finger is much thicker than his are. It’s so much tighter like this, more full, and he hears himself let out a rush of air when he starts to move.

“You can take it,” Damianos assures him in a heavy voice that makes Laurent’s head spin. “You’re doing so well, you can take a little more.”

Laurent doesn’t think he can do more. This is all already so much for him, so much more than he wants, and he’s helpless to lie there and accept it as Damianos presses long fingers inside him, Laurent’s fingers moving alongside his.

“Like that,” Damianos says again, lower, and a desperate noise tears from Laurent’s throat as he curls their fingers and makes Laurent gasp. His cock throbs against his stomach, it’s so hard that it aches, and he feels seconds away from thrashing in place and demanding that this end.

“You should see yourself,” Damianos sighs, leaning above him and bracing an arm by Laurent’s head. His voice is labored; Laurent shouldn’t be able to know what he looks like when he sounds like this. “You’re perfect.”

It’s all too much. Laurent turns his head so that his cheek is pressed into the bedding, strands of hair sticking to his face.

“Perfect,” Damianos says again, swiping a finger under Laurent’s eye.

Laurent isn’t sure how long this continues on, two more of Damianos’ fingers spreading Laurent apart until he is loose and slick, shaking from the sensations. It’s so hard for Laurent to think like this, all of his nerves feel alight as he lies there and just - takes it. 

Finally, finally, he pulls himself away, though it is not without a look of satisfaction that tightens Laurent’s throat. Damianos’ fingers are wet as he rubs them against Laurent’s stomach, oil dripping down his abdomen and running towards his thighs. He cages Laurent’s body in with his arms, lingering above him.

“You feel so good.” He’s breathing through a smile like this is something they are sharing, like Laurent might smile back at any second. “You’re so tight. I can’t wait to fuck you.”

He closes his lips against Laurent nipple and he whines, arching into it weakly. He feels like this has been lasting for hours, like it starts back up every time he thinks it’s almost over.

It’s not over yet. Damianos’ lips are glistening wet when he pulls back, as pleased with himself as he’s been this entire time, and it is the last thing Laurent is ready for when he dips his head down and takes Laurent in his mouth.

The unexpectedness of the act hits Laurent before anything else. His body jolts with it, it makes the wet heat around his cock tighten further, and he grasps the sheets in his hands so tightly he fears they will rip.

“This is not -” Laurent pants, unable to quell his trembling. He gapes at the ceiling, swallowing. “I should be doing this for you.”

It is a few seconds before Damianos pulls off him, calculatedly slow. He doesn’t pull back far, his breath warm on the tip of Laurent’s cock as he speaks.

“You will,” he says, causing another bout of hysteria to twist in Laurent’s stomach. “This is also my pleasure.” And then he is taking Laurent’s cock down his throat.

It is unlike anything Laurent has ever experienced before. His head is swimming, his teeth are pressing into his lip so hard that he knows there will be marks. Damianos’ tongue presses into the slit and Laurent keens, his toes curling. It’s nothing like before, atop satin sheets that feel like cool water against his skin. 

This time when Damianos pulls away, it is with a determined set in his eyes that Laurent doesn’t try to understand. He moves up Laurent’s body, his lips red.

“Taste yourself,” he says, and then he’s licking his way into Laurent’s mouth and grinning into the kiss. It’s filthy and repulsive and Laurent is panting into it, his fingers are back inside Laurent, pressing deep, and Laurent moans so loudly into his mouth that he’s worried it can be heard from outside. 

“I knew you would be like this,” Damianos groans, before curving his fingers in a way that make Laurent’s eyes roll back.

His hand finds the smooth expanse of Damianos’ back, the ripples of muscle, and he takes the opportunity to curl his fingers in a way that he hopes will break skin. He needs that. He wants to carry it with him, to leave this room with Damianos’ blood stained beneath his fingernails.

Damianos breaks away with another groan, pushing himself up like he requires strength to separate from him. “All right,” he says, laughing lightly as he moves. “All right. We can.” 

And then it is finally happening. Hands are on Laurent’s hips, pulling him forward and down the bed, and Laurent feels as a final shred of hope slips away when Damianos places his hands under Laurent’s legs, lifting them up.

Laurent experiences it all in a series of flashes, somewhere in his mind where certain things manage to penetrate. His thighs are propped up, it leaves him open and exposed and feeling more on display than he ever has before. His hands are unsteady; his fingers clamber for purchase against anything solid. He is on his back, breathless, being pressed into the mattress again, and again.

“Shh,” Damianos’ voice is a rough breathe in his ear, and is Laurent making those sounds? His knee is pushed higher and it stretches him more, making him cry out.

Damianos presses his lips to Laurent’s neck, to the beating pulse beneath his jaw. He splays his palm flat against Laurent’s thigh, keeping him open. “Isn’t that good?” he says, kissing that same spot, and then he is thrusting inside him again.

Damianos fucks him deep and fast, leaned over Laurent so that he is nearly folded in two. He touches Laurent throughout it, sucking marks into his skin that Laurent knows will last. He will take a mirror to himself and see bruises against his wrists, purple and red blooming across his neck and chest that will serve as a reminder to what he has asked for. 

Damianos’ thumbs press against his shoulders, keeping Laurent down and in place. He follows him down, their chests rubbing together as Laurent’s legs fall behind him and cover Damianos’ thighs, and the new angle traps Laurent’s cock against his stomach.

Damianos places his hands on either side of their bodies, bracing his knees against the bedding. He shifts the angle of his hips and the next time he pushes into Laurent it tears a whimper out of him that he doesn’t manage to hide, and he wants to evaporate in humiliation. Damianos keeps on thrusting against that same place, making spots appear behind Laurent’s eyes and heat through him. He feels as if he is dangling by a thread as he presses his lips together and tenses his body, even as he chokes down another sound.

“Come,” Damianos says, the Veretian word, spoken into the edge of Laurent’s mouth as his hand moves between them. “Let go, I want to see,” he rubs the tips of his fingers around the head of Laurent’s cock as he sucks at his bottom lip, and then their mouths are pressed together as Laurent’s orgasm is torn out of him.

He comes all over his fist, streaking his own stomach and the lines of his chest with it. His body is shaking from the force of it, he can barely stop, and his head falls limp as Damianos fucks him harder, speaking throughout it. When he finishes it is with a strangled curse that Laurent cannot understand, bitten into the side of his neck. Already he can feel bruises forming on his hips.

Laurent’s limbs feels heavy after, his head is thick like stone as he feels himself come back to his body. His hair is wet at the nape, and his lips feel raw and sore. His face is blazing hot. He knows, if he looks, that his body will be covered in spend.

Laurent’s stomach lurches in an instant, and he needs to resist the urge to roll over and heave. Damianos is at his side, adjusting himself comfortably, and every shift of the mattress and open breeze against his sticky skin makes him sick with nausea. _It’s over,_ Laurent tells himself, closing his eyes and breathing out. _It’s finished, it is finally the end._

Except that it’s not the end. Damianos presses his face into Laurent’s hair and breathes him in, and the silence in the room and the endorphins from the lack of contact leaves Laurent with such levelheaded clarity that he can feel nothing but his hatred, rushing through his body with an intensity that rattles him. His eyes come open, hidden from Damianos’ view, and he promises himself that the next time, he will be prepared.

“That was very good,” Damianos says. His lips are close enough that they move against Laurent’s skin and make him shiver, fingers clenching together. “You did wonderfully.” 

His voice is a sated hum, thick and replete, and Laurent’s body braces in anticipation. He presses a kiss behind Laurent’s ear, traces the sides of his fingers down his arm. 

And then he rolls onto his back. “You may go, now.”

And like that, Laurent’s foreseeable future is set out before him. This is what he will look forward to, what he has created. He is no longer required, no longer acknowledged, and it will be many more familiar days and nights of this where he will give, and give, until the time comes where he will finally be able to take.

Damianos is hazy after sex; he focuses on nothing in particular as Laurent moves, his actions the least of his concerns. It is one of the only things Laurent absorbs as he gets on unsteady legs, and it is the first thing he commits to memory as he goes.

It is not the end. It is the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> [ tumblr](http://laurent-ofvere.tumblr.com) [ twitter](https://twitter.com/damensthighs)


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